


A Learning Process

by BelfastDocks



Category: The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Foreplay, Horny Teenagers, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 07:04:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15944231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelfastDocks/pseuds/BelfastDocks
Summary: In truth, it was a learning process. And inexperienced though she was, she discovered she learned quickly. Mary/Dickon





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Right after I posted this story, I did in fact wonder why on earth Mary wouldn't get pregnant by the end of the thing. It is this piece's major flaw, and I will admit to it. I've had several reviewers mention it to me, and I completely understand their thoughts! I decided not to change anything, however. So if you're wondering why Mary isn't pregnant by the end, well, call it fanfiction, and let's leave it at that.
> 
> ~BD

****

## A Learning Process

****

She had been fifteen, and he had been seventeen.

Unaware that her body was changing as much as it was, she still wore the same old cotton gardening dresses whenever she went out to work in her secret haven. And once or twice, she had wondered why he looked at her the way he did – his eyes dark and strangely hungry, and his body perfectly still, when only moments before he had been pruning roses and singing low and husky in Yorkshire. She would flush whenever she met that heated, blue gaze and quickly return to her work, trying to ignore the strange twitching sensation she would feel creeping over her skin whenever it happened and, oddly, the emptiness that melted into liquid between her legs.

But it wasn't until a sporadic, early summer shower caught them in the garden, soaking both through to the skin, that it went too far.

Her dress had been a half size too small. It pulled too tightly over her breasts and at her hips, and it was too short. And when it rained, not even her chemise could hide her suddenly hard nipples.

He had turned to take her hand and pull her towards the towering oak, so they wouldn't get any wetter than they already were. But when his firm, calloused, brown fingers grasped her slender ones, he froze. She saw his eyes dart instinctively to her breasts and the tight points at their tips, saw his Adam's apple bob a couple of times in quick succession, saw the muscles beneath his worn shirt tense and bunch.

For a brief second, he remained perfectly still. Then, as though he couldn't possibly help it, he slowly lifted his hand, and tortuously drew a gentle finger down her neck, her throat, her collarbone, and finally over her breast and her nipple. It hardened even more beneath his touch, and she gasped and cried out softly and instantly arched towards him in a way that completely surprised her.

And then, for the first time since she'd met him, she watched him lose control.

In truth, it was a learning process. And inexperienced though she was, she discovered she learned quickly.

She learned that he was no Yorkshire moor angel as she had always imagined, but a young Yorkshire _man_. And she discovered, to her pleasure, that she preferred him as a young man and not an angel, especially when her fingers skated over tanned freckled shoulders and arms and back and chest, beneath which lay quivering, rippling, hard muscle that made her body curve desperately towards him. She wanted to memorize him, and she did. Even now, she could recall the perfect way his shoulders and jaw had been seemingly chiseled from a master stone.

And despite his hunger and need for her, he had been as gentle and as considerate as he could be, given the heated intensity of an instantaneous, desperate situation. She became acutely aware of the warring emotions he felt, because she felt them, too. She couldn't decide if she wished to touch him quickly for fear that he would disappear, or slowly and shyly as a young lady who had never done this before should. And for some reason, she didn't _want_ to be a shy, proper young lady. Her blood felt much too hot to be proper.

She also couldn't possibly decide if she wanted his firm lips coaxing hers, his tongue dancing feverishly with her tongue and those warm hands cupping her body, his fingers digging into her flesh so deliciously…or if she wanted his mouth suckling her breasts. Both were equally satisfying and made her want more.

She then learned that the cool, wet grass felt odd against her bare back, but on the other hand, his hot, damp hips felt perfectly right, fitted into hers. She wondered how she had never thought of lying naked with him before, and remembered that it was because she didn't know how to do it until the moment he touched her in the rain. She gasped when he first entered her, but then relished the thick, smooth hardness because it filled her completely, and the way he managed to touch a spot just _right there_ within her tight heat that caused bursts of starry light to flash before her eyes. She clutched him to her, afraid to let go, and yet certain that nothing had ever felt so right or good as she rocked hotly with him.

The stickiness that followed felt as strange as the wet grass did, but deliciously nice in a way the grass was not; especially as it had come just after her own body had tensed and exploded and sent her flying in a way she'd never, ever dreamed. And when she slowly came back to herself, she found that she loved his weight on her, that her hands were sliding lazily over a lovely thin sheen of sweat and rain on his broad shoulders, and that she cherished the deep blue of his eyes even more. When he whispered in a trembling voice that he'd always loved her and that he was sorry, but that he hadn't been able to stop himself because of how much he'd needed her when he'd seen her so damp and chilled, she couldn't hold back quiet, happy tears. Only when she told him that she loved him too did the line of worry on his brow ease away, and he held her so tightly that her breasts flattened into his hard chest. For the first time in her life, she realized she had felt truly safe, and truly loved.

After that, watching him lose control became an intense pleasure. It helped that Colin was in London at school, because it meant there would be no interruptions. She deliberately found the smallest dresses in her wardrobe and would change into them after she reached the secret garden but before he arrived, so she could watch the uncontainable lust in his eyes flare the moment he entered and saw her waiting for him. It became a game, having him unfasten the tugging buttons and hooks to free her from the confines of the tight fabric so they could press naked against each other and groan with need before they became a part of the other. Sometimes he didn't even bother taking her dresses off, but would simply hike her skirt to her waist so quickly that she didn't have time to react; then he would pin her to one of the rough walls and wrap her legs about his hips so he could thrust into her.

She learned that she still had much more to learn after that first time they made love against the garden wall; that there were many ways of doing it besides lying on the grass. By autumn, she flushed to even think of where they had been together, and the positions they had tried. Even once when it was too chilly out, he had met her in the barn and they had hidden in the loft one evening when the gardeners and stable hands had gone in for dinner, and she told him afterwards she detested the feel of the hay against her skin. He had merely chuckled; that low, throaty, husky chuckle that made her quiver with anticipation, and told her he'd find a more comfortable place with the weather turning colder. She suggested he sneak into the manor and they could hide in one of the hundred rooms. So they did, more times than she remembered.

She learned how to please him because he taught her how – in that patient way he had taught her how to prune roses and pull weeds and speak Yorkshire. And sometimes he wasn't patient in the least, and she would laugh once it was over at how eager and hungry and demanding he had been, and he would only grin cheekily and tell her that, how every now and then, it was utterly impossible to be patient when he wanted her so badly.

"Mary! What on earth are you doing by that window? Do come and join us, won't you?"

Her eyes drifted shut in an attempt to control her temper, and she sighed softly from the sheer irritation at having her secret thoughts interrupted. Glancing away from the frost-covered window and over her shoulder towards the young, insipid schoolmate who had spoken to her, she said coolly, "I'm watching the snow. I'll join you in a moment."

The other girls, who were all gathered about the cheery fire with several young men, shook their heads at the contrary Miss Lennox's ways, and returned to their conversations. She vaguely realized they were discussing the theatre's production they had all gone to earlier that evening.

Only one young man kept his eyes on her – thoughtful agate eyes framed with thick lashes. She allowed her mask to disappear for the briefest moment so that he, at least, could see her true feelings: loneliness and longing and worry. Because, after all, her cousin worried as much as she did ever since they had learned of their dearest friend's conscription into the army, and his subsequent transfer to France. For now, the memories of that last year together with Dickon were all that kept her going as she worked to complete finishing school and as she endured the social elite of London, while he slept in muddy, filthy trenches and was forced to kill men. When at any moment he could be killed himself. The memories barely kept her sane. And the letters; for they corresponded as much as possible.

He had already told her he intended on marrying her, no matter what anyone thought. No matter that he was a commoner and she a lady. And she had already consented, and her uncle and cousin would either accept her decision or they wouldn't. She had turned down every wealthy suitor who vied to be her beau whilst she was in London, dreaming only of a young moor lad and basking in the delicious sensations that danced over her skin whenever she thought of him. No wealthy, arrogant fop could make her feel the way he could. No London man could make her feel complete. At least Colin knew she loved Dickon; that helped some. Colin understood, though he was concerned for both of them, and though he'd admitted he still felt a bit jealous.

She sighed and turned back to the cold window, blatantly ignoring the sudden burst of giggling over some stupid, pointless joke from the group about the fire.

She couldn't wait to return to Yorkshire.

And she prayed that Dickon would return from France alive so she could be his wife.

**~FIN~**


	2. A Living Process

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn't believe the silly games they had once played could really heal him. Not now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to "A Learning Process", from Dickon's POV, taking place after WWI. The first piece was rated M for sex, and so this piece is rated M as well. However, it's rather tame compared to the first part.
> 
> ~BD

****

## A Living Process

****

He was twenty-one, and presumably, she was eighteen – though he had not heard from her for some time.

Tall, handsome, and well tanned from his work out of doors; one would expect the young ladies of Thwaite to fawn over him incessantly. And yet, none did, because for all he was attractive, there was a haunted curtain in his blue eyes that warned the maids of Misselthwaite to avoid him. Oh, one or two had tried to capture his attention when he'd first returned, but he'd paid them such little heed that they simply became annoyed and gave up.

And, in their frustration, they resorted to talking of him behind his back, behind their hands, and in the servants' dining hall whenever he declined to come to meals. They whispered about the handsome young man who had left Misselthwaite as the best lad in Yorkshire, and returned from the war so altered that no one should have known him.

He ignored them all, for they were not worth his time or effort. He needed to focus on other things right now, and not buxom young maids. So he diligently set about his work at the manor, trying to recall how to make flowers and vegetables grow. Once, it seemed, he had simply been able to talk to them and they obeyed him without thought. But perhaps he had only dreamed such things, for these days he couldn't recall the words to make such miracles happen.

Truthfully, he wondered if he had dreamed _everything_ he distantly remembered from his younger years. It all seemed so vague now. Misselthwaite was so quiet that it was almost eerie, and the moor so vast that it reminded him of the endless, barren fields of France. The abounding gardens seemed lifeless despite his attempts to tend to them, and he was nearly always alone. Even the other under-gardeners avoided the eldest Sowerby son, as though afraid of catching the depression that hovered around him like a black mist. And so he had no friends to chatter with (even if he'd been able to think of something to chatter about).

He knew what he was missing – the key to unlocking his _old_ heart. His new heart had been molded by the fires of hell, shaped and created into a monstrous, twisted, deformed object that did not resemble what he thought his heart (or anyone's heart) should look like or feel like. Beneath this terrible, mangled shell there was surely something of what he only fleetingly remembered, but the key he needed to dissolve the ugly heart was somewhere in London.

It was a theoretical key, because it wasn't what one normally considered a metal thing used to open doors. But it was still a key in the loosest sense of the word.

He wondered what she looked like now. At sixteen, she had been distractingly pretty. He had overheard his sister speaking to Mrs. Medlock a couple of weeks ago; apparently, Lord Craven had a picture of his niece in his study that had been sent to him, quite recently, taken by Colin. Mrs. Medlock claimed it was a wonder of a thing, for the mistress of Misselthwaite looked nothing like the sour child who had arrived from India eight years prior. She apparently looked like the debutant she had been born. London, the daft woman claimed, had done the girl a world of good.

_London_. When Martha had told him what Medlock had said, he'd scoffed bitterly at the housekeeper's ridiculous notion that _London_ had done _anyone_ any good – and most certainly _not_ the mistress of Misselthwaite. Her _garden_ had molded her into the person she had become. Sugarcoated society could not change that.

Martha had been stunned at the aggressive anger that had emanated from him when he'd voiced his rough opinion to her, and then, in sudden shame for his outburst, he'd sullenly apologized and vanished into the vast gardens to avoid sympathy and censure, just like some old, crotchety bachelor.

And yet, it was somewhere on the grounds, just a few minutes after that conversation with Martha, that he remembered that he had been altered by forces outside of the gardens. Suddenly, he sadly wondered if Mrs. Medlock might not be right. Perhaps London _had_ changed her. And if it had...

A strange, hollow feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. Had it changed her for the worst? _He_ had changed for the worst, after all. He swallowed back the burning in the corners of his eyes and shouldered his shovel more squarely. The east gardens needed tending today; it would not do to wallow in the past if he could help it.

And besides, whatever the case, she was likely staggeringly beautiful now, regardless of changes that London may have wrought inside of her. Likely, she would be courted from all sides, and no doubt someone would steal her heart away (if they hadn't already). And unknowingly, they would destroy his in the same process.

His only consolation was fleeting: She had given him her most precious gift when she had been fifteen, and he gave his to her. He had _that_ , even if he had nothing else. When she married, her husband wouldn't be able to claim something so blissfully perfect. That belonged only to him.

But still, to have that and _only_ that was painful in other ways. He would rather have had her hand and not her purity, for he was not alive without her.

And as a result of the combination of the lack of her presence, his previous experiences, and the tormenting memories, it had taken him nearly two months to gather the courage needed to enter her secret haven once again.

That first afternoon when he finally forced himself down the ivy walk was horrifically difficult. He diverted his eyes from the trailing, dark green tendrils that caught the early summer breeze. The robin's melodic chirp made him flinch and shiver. And even when he reached the place where he knew the door was hidden, he stood outside of it for what seemed the longest time, detesting the loneliness of this part of the grounds, for it was quite cut off from the rest of the gardens and lawns. As a child, he had loved the silence and the secrets, for _she_ had always been with him. Now, utterly alone, with only the crisp, sharp images of the war in his mind, he wondered why he was making himself go into her garden at all. She wasn't here – if she cared, she would be here, but she wasn't, which surely meant she didn't care...didn't it? She had finished her schooling in May, and he'd overheard one of the other under-gardeners remark that Mrs. Medlock was hoping the girl would remain in London, and perhaps be married soon.

But even if she married and left him forever, the garden would still need tending. There was no one else, and so the responsibility fell to him. Shirking from it would be cowardly, and he was most certainly _not_ a coward.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he'd lifted his hand, took the heavy key from his pocket, and pressed it into the rusty lock.

It clicked with an exceptionally loud, grating sound that reminded him vaguely of a gunshot, and he forced himself to push the door open and take a trembling step into the four walls.

His first impression was surprise. Though it had not been tended in nearly two years, there was summer color from all angles. Startled, he had wandered into it, a lost and lonely man, begging silently for the Magic of his childhood to heal his destroyed soul.

Except he didn't expect it to – not really. He didn't believe the silly games they had once played could _really_ heal him. Not now. A random wish it had been, and nothing more.

But then, two months later, he had stopped his weeding one afternoon to gaze at the robin, and the instant realization that he felt better than he'd felt when he'd first arrived home was absolutely staggering.

Was he _wick_ again?

He couldn't imagine that he was, and yet... his heart did seem lighter. The images of the war weren't as harsh in the garden as they were at night when he was trying desperately to fall asleep, praying to God that he wouldn't have the same nightmares over and over and over.

But... now that he thought on it, he also didn't have quite as many nightmares if he worked in the garden, either.

Surprised by this revelation, he became determined to keep going to the garden to see if it was really something so incredible as "Magic". He kept asking Ben if he mightn't spend even more time in the garden than was truly necessary. None of the adults around the estate seemed to care if a quiet moor lad, who had seen too much death in the war, wanted to work in a secret garden instead of tending the other places around Misselthwaite. He even heard Roach comment to Ben one afternoon, when they weren't aware that he was nearby, that Lord Craven had encouraged them to allow him to work in Mistress Mary's garden as much as possible. And Ben had responded that it was quite likely that Mistress Mary would be coming home soon, and her uncle would want the garden to look beautiful for her return.

The very thought was like a life vest on a sinking ship; he clung to it desperately and continued his work.

And so, the days slipped by into weeks, and the weeks passed surprisingly fast. By the time autumn arrived, he had lost track of time. It seemed strange, he thought one afternoon, as he lay in the coarse, browning grass on one of the terraces in that hidden place, watching the copper and gold leaves dance against an egg-blue sky. Strange that so much time had slipped away, that he had been back for months now, and that the secret garden still held a teensy bit of Magic that had worked upon him as it had worked upon the two former children of Misselthwaite Manor.

There was still work to be done before winter arrived, though – and he wasn't looking forward to winter. Everything would become dormant then; a lifeless state that reminded him forcibly of death, and he had to quickly change his thoughts before he broke out in a cold sweat and remembered the stench of blood and bodies. Unlike the trenches on the battlefields, the garden would come to life again in the spring, and even more so if he tended it properly before the cold really set in. If he could make it through the winter.

So he rolled to his feet and gathered his tools to start his work once more.

It was a beautiful day within; the colors were rich and jeweled, all reds and oranges and yellows and coppers and golds and dark greens. A couple of blue-purple irises peeked from between these vibrant colors, like splashes of deep water. The leaves beneath the oak were thick; he remembered when they had once raked them into piles and jumped in them, to scatter them out again.

He decided to prepare the roses on the east side for winter, for he had prepared the lilies the day before, and he became so absorbed in his task that he didn't hear the garden door creak open.

It was only when he heard the soft rustle of fabric behind him that he jolted and leapt to his feet, a momentary wave of fear numbing his extremities at the thought of someone sneaking up on him; and therefore it was a couple of seconds before he actually registered that Mary Lennox was standing there, and not a German soldier.

Her eyes were wide and soft blue, and she was nervously biting her lower lip ever-so-slightly. Her hair had been curled and pinned up, but her dress was not the fancy, lacy gowns of the previous decade. In fact, it was rather a plain dress of dark burgundy that reached to her ankles, covered by a light autumn coat of rich caramel.

His throat felt suddenly parched, and the numbness in his fingers didn't fade. After a tense moment, he stammered, "Mary?"

She swallowed and stepped forward, placing her left hand against his chest, and it felt as though fire had erupted suddenly within him. His eyes traveled instantly to her fourth finger, noting with a surge of possessiveness that there was mercifully nothing upon it.

"Martha told me you were likely here." Her voice trembled and her hand flattened against his jacket. "I just arrived but ten minutes ago, rather unexpectedly – I only had a chance to telegram Uncle Archie yesterday morning that I was coming home. I couldn't have come earlier, for there were so many engagements to attend over the summer. It was all so dull and awful; I wish I could have returned this past spring! I can't tell you how _glad_ I am to be back." She paused, then breathed, "Oh, _Dickon_... I'm so happy to see you. You've no idea how happy."

He couldn't let his hopes get away from him; if he did, and nothing happened the way he wanted it to, his heart would shatter. He couldn't bear to feel his heart shatter twice in his lifetime. Hoarse and gruff, he shifted away from her and asked, "How long is thee stayin'?"

She seemed startled by this. "I'm _back_ at Misselthwaite, Dickon. For good."

"Eh? But wha' o' London?"

To his surprise, it seemed as though a curtain fell behind her eyes; she diverted them from his gaze and moved to her left, brushing her hand along a couple of crimson roses, knocking several loose petals to the ground. "I don't want to go back to London. I want to stay here. The only reason I went to London to begin with was to receive a proper education, like Uncle and Medlock wanted me to." There was distinct bitterness in her words, reminding him of his own emotions on life.

His hand moved of its own accord and gently touched her shoulder. "Tha's a lady, Mary. Tha needed t' learn such things."

"So you think of me as a lady too, do you?" she asked hollowly.

Startled again, he stammered, "I've always thought thee a lady. That doesn' mean I'm not glad t' see thee again." Then, softly, he added, "I've missed thee somethin' terrible."

"Did you?" She half-turned to meet him, and he could tell she was trembling once more.

He nodded. "Seems like… I couldn' hardly forget the bad things, knowin' I mightn' never get a chance t' be near thee again."

"Well, I'm home now," she said quietly, stepping up to him and placing a tentative hand against his chest again. "And I won't be going away again."

He caught it with his own, marveling at the coolness of her fingers in the chill breeze. "I'm a gardener, Mary. We should remember that."

"That didn't stop thee before," she said, now sounding slightly annoyed.

The wall within his chest was crumbling; he frantically wondered if he should let it. If he did, and lost everything, he would break completely. But it seemed that he was powerless to stop it, because Mary was too near, too beautiful. Without second thought, he wrapped his arms around her, crushing her against him, and his body began to shake.

Instantly, her arms twisted about his neck, into his hair. Her lips brushed his neck and his jaw, and then moved to his ear where she whispered, "I'm never leaving you again. Never. I swear it."

He tightened his grip on her, but she didn't complain. His breath seemed to be coming in gasps, searing his lungs. To stop the painful intake, he pressed his mouth to her pulse and the feeling came back to his fingers immediately when her blood seemed to beat faster and hotter.

She gasped. "I thought for a moment that you didn't want me any more, Dickon!"

He squeezed his eyes shut and winced as a couple of tears dotted the shoulder of her coat. "I could never not want thee."

She tightened her fingers in his hair and pulled him to face her, pressing her mouth against his and groaning when, a couple of seconds later, they remembered the right angle and the kiss deepened. He thought perhaps his knees would give way, but they didn't. Almost desperately (for he hadn't touched her in so long), he roughly opened her coat and let his hands travel up her slender body, stopped to cup her breasts and then moved from under her coat to cup her face and place kisses over her cheeks and eyelids and nose, wherever his mouth happened to fall. Beneath him, Mary pulled his shirt from his trousers, only to skim her fingers over the hard muscle in his stomach.

He gritted his teeth, breath hissing in slightly, before they both staggered away from each other. It was almost too much, and it was too cold in the garden to be fooling around like this. Besides, they weren't fifteen and seventeen any longer. Mary was now eighteen and he had just turned twenty-one. He should have more propriety now, more sense. He should have matured, some. Especially since the war.

Still, she looked positively wonderful standing before him, lips parted and flushed from kissing him, coat hanging open where he had tugged it apart to touch her. It was all he could do not to reach for her, to touch her again, to feel her arching beneath him for more.

Perhaps she noticed the hungry flare in his dark blue eyes, for she smiled and said softly, "We have all the time in the world now."

He nodded, not trusting his voice, willing himself to believe her. She was home, and she was his. The wall around his heart was nearly gone, and he felt lighter, though dizzy from emotion.

"Tha garden won' need much tendin' in the winter, though."

A mischievous glint flickered in her eyes. "Then I suppose we'll have to think of other things to do, won't we?"

"Aye, get t' know each other again. I've a feeling we've both changed some, Mary."

She sobered. "Likely. Bad experiences always change people. London and France weren't good places for us to be, were they? I wish we could have both stayed here."

Before he could think of an answer, she reached out and took his hand in hers.

"Enough of that, though. Uncle Archie insists that you to eat dinner with us tonight. He says you've been positively lifeless since you arrived home, and he knows you care for me. You will, won't you? You must, Dickon. He was most insistent."

"Eh... I need t' change, then. I'm not fit for dinner wit' Master Craven."

She nuzzled his throat, her hand threading into the hair at the base of his neck once more. "God, you smell of earth; it's heavenly! Dickon... I want..."

"And if you start that," he added pointedly, trying to untangle her fingers, "neither of us will make it to dinner."

Laughing softly, Mary pulled away from him. "Oh, very well. Come on, then. We can finish the garden tomorrow. And get to know each other again."

Without second thought, he followed her towards the manor, his heart so light it felt as though he could float.

**~FIN~**


End file.
